


Landscape Change

by strangestorys



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Episode AU: s03e07 Digestivo, Episode Fix-it, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Reconciliation, Surgeon Hannibal, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8972422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestorys/pseuds/strangestorys
Summary: A Digestivo fix-it fic. Instead of escaping from the Vergers' farm to Will's house, Hannibal goes the opposite direction and takes them into the woods. Will wakes up to find them on the run, while they try to survive and restore their broken relationship.

  “Do you want a confession of guilt? That I injured you and enjoyed it? That seeing your face permanently marked will give me pleasure?” Hannibal looked back at him, eyes soft. As vulnerable as he’d been in sleep. “Would that satisfy you?”


  Will thought for a long moment, not dropping his eye contact. Finally he asked, in a measured tone, “If not for pleasure, why do it?”


  “The line between pleasure and suffering is a razor’s edge. Falling to one side or the other can be more a matter of chance than of choice.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mokuyoubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/gifts).



> Written as a Hannigram Holiday Exchange fic for [mokuyoubi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi), who mentioned Digestivo as an episode they'd want to see given the fix-it treatment. It sounded like a really interesting challenge, and I loved running with it!

Will woke with a raging headache. His nose was full of a strong, acerbic pine scent, and when he moved his hand, he found it sticky with sap.

On moving his arm further, he felt a dull pain spread through his torso starting at his shoulder, and, at his involuntary wince, he found his entire face aflame in a sharp throb.

_Not dead then._ Dead wouldn’t hurt this much.

He took several deep breaths, steadying himself through the pain, trying to shove his adrenaline back into the box so that he could get his bearings.

Once he’d laid still for a few minutes, his pain receded enough for him to focus on his surroundings. He heard rustling pine needles, now and again shot through with a burst of activity - 

_squirrels? please let it be squirrels_

\- bird song - 

_I know that bird song, I’m close to home_

\- very low embers -

_that fire needs tending, it’s cold as marble out here_

\- and deep, rhythmic breathing, just to his left.

There were very, very few people to whom that breathing was likely to belong. Will wasn’t sure he wanted to open his eyes to see any of them. He did anyway.

_...of fucking course_

Hannibal lay sleeping on his side facing Will, sandy hair hanging lank in his closed eyes, dried blood crossing his face in brown rivulets. His mouth was open just a little, and the little pool of drool under him told Will this wasn’t a fake sleep; he was well and truly out.

_how the fuck…_

_you know what, no. I’m not even going to ask._

_he’d better not be fucking injured_

_he’d better know where we are_

_he’d better have some grand fucking master plan_

_and that plan had better involve painkillers, a change of clothes, and a sandwich, all in the very near future_

He closed his eyes again and breathed deep a few times to psych himself up, then pushed himself to sitting using the heels of his hands on the cool earth. Pain ripped through him like a shot, but he powered through, bending his knees underneath him to stand. He wobbled a little, joints protesting every second of it, then opened his eyes again to get his bearings.

He’d been laying down in a pallet of pine needles, Hannibal beside him on his own pallet. They’d obviously been placed on purpose, piled there from visible voids in the forest floor. Snow was hilled around them, shoved out of the way of their dirt clearing. A small dugout area in front of them held a heap of red glowing ash, still crackling just the littlest bit. Hannibal couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours, given the level of that fire.

He was wearing the same shirt and pants he’d been in when Cordell had knocked him out, but now he had on a thick wool peacoat. Will didn’t want to know where Hannibal had found it. He rummaged in the pockets anyway, finding a quarter, a nickel, and a chintzy little pocket knife, the kind a boy scout might have on a keyring.

They were up on a wooded rise, a little stream running in the gully below them. Will made his way down to it, his joints loosening a little, but the pain in his face still a constant burn. The water looked clean enough, and Will frankly didn’t care if he died from amoebic dysentery at that point in his life, so he drank a few cold handfuls, realizing just how parched he was. _must be the anaesthetic._ He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the water.

_Jesus Christ._

Now he really _hoped_ for that amoebic dysentery.

He really, truly did look like someone who’d recently been thrown off a train, had their head sawed open, and then escaped from a back-alley face transplant surgery. Imagine that.

His eyes were sunken deep into purple bruises. Brown, flaking dried blood covered him in so many places he couldn’t tell where the real injuries began. Even the older injuries (the older injuries being the ones that occurred three days ago, rather than two days ago or yesterday) had reopened at some point.

The water was freezing, but Will dunked his hand in again and splashed it on his face, over and over again. The cold replaced the pain and made him feel sharper, more present. Eventually, he had all the old blood off, and all the new blood off, and he could see himself more clearly.

He was a mess. And even though Hannibal, sleeping sweetly and soundly on the hill above, was directly responsible for only one of his wounds, he still blamed him for each of them.

He wanted nothing more than to just walk away, to follow the stream down to the sea and then along shore until he found civilization; or to follow it up into the mountains, where he could grow his beard out and live in a tree trunk and eat acorns for the rest of his days. Either one would be better than running away with a fugitive. _Becoming_ a fugitive, which, he reflected, he technically already was.

Either one would be better than being subsumed by Hannibal again, reliant on him, responsible for him.

He sat there, watching the slushy, iced stream, for what must have been half an hour. The cold had thoroughly penetrated his lungs by now, and every breath was a sharp, sweet ache. He was incredibly present, in a way he hadn’t been in months.

Hand in his pocket, he rolled the smooth nickel across his knuckles, around and around, fidgeting to stay warm while he turned his choices over and over in his head. He could leave. He could walk in any direction, and eventually find help. He could be free of Hannibal, leave him to die in the elements, or to be captured by Verger’s men, or taken by the police, or eaten by some wild animal. Leave him to escape and live free again, to haunt the forests as an urban legend.

But then what? Wouldn’t he always wonder? And hadn’t that always been the problem, that he couldn’t stop wondering? That he couldn’t cut Hannibal out of his head? And not knowing where he was would make it so much worse, with the promise that he could reappear at any moment. No, better to know, and to have power in the knowledge. Better to keep an eye on him himself.

And even then, under all of that, the little voice kept whispering at the back of his brain: _what about mercy?_

Could he really leave him here, unarmed, cold, and alone? Will wasn’t that person. He knew it, and Hannibal knew it.

_Fuck._

* * *

When he climbed the hill again, he found Hannibal still sleeping. The fire had burned itself cold, nothing but white ash left in the pit.

He walked the perimeter of their little camp, gathering the driest branches he could find. He brought them to the middle and piled them to his side, then took a handful of the needles from his own bed and put it in the center of the pit.

He pulled the little pocket knife out of his coat and struck the butt of it against a smooth rock he’d found by the firepit. The rock already had a few nicks in it, presumably from when Hannibal had done the same thing last night.

He sparked it several times before the needles caught, and he let them burn for a minute before piling the sticks around. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bundle that was Hannibal shift. He ignored him. The flames began licking up around the branches, singeing off their needles with wisps of smoke.

Hannibal sat up groggily, rubbing at his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was slow and gravelly. “Will. You should have woken me.”

“You looked so fucking _peaceful_ , how could I have disturbed that?” He shot back before he could stop himself. He could stay with Hannibal, but that didn’t mean he had to be an adult about it.

“Will…” Hannibal sharpened up, putting on a much flatter voice, one with more affected patience.

“What, were you dreaming about our new life together? Our new domestic bliss in the middle of the fucking forest?” Will poked at the fire with another stick, still refusing to meet Hannibal’s eyes. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Will, calm down. You need stitches, you’ll make the scars worse.”

“You’d like that though, wouldn’t you. You’d like to see your scars on my face, big and ugly.”

“I…”

“You what, Hannibal.” He finally looked up at Hannibal, finding nothing but gentleness. Hannibal’s hair was still sleep-mussed, his clothes wrinkled.

Hannibal looked away and swallowed hard. He spoke softly. “...do you want me to say yes?”

Will paused, taken off guard. “Do I want… what do you mean?”

“Do you want a confession of guilt? That I injured you and enjoyed it? That seeing your face permanently marked will give me pleasure?” Hannibal looked back at him, eyes soft. As vulnerable as he’d been in sleep. “Would that satisfy you?”

Will thought for a long moment, not dropping his eye contact. Finally he asked, in a measured tone, “If not for pleasure, why do it?”

“The line between pleasure and suffering is a razor’s edge. Falling to one side or the other can be more a matter of chance than of choice.”

“And would you have chosen to enjoy it, if you could?”

“If I could, I would have chosen not to do it at all. If there lay a pathway in my mind that didn’t end in either of our suffering, I would choose it every time.”

“And now? Where does your pathway lead?”

“Curiously, nowhere.”

Will gave him a questioning look.

“We seem to have been given a blank slate. The path has blurred in the face of our infinite potential.”

_Infinite potential._ That wasn’t quite how Will would put their current situation. He poked at the fire again, thinking on it for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, he was gentler.

“We’ll still be scarred.”

“Our bodies are a map to our histories. We carry our scars with us as a reminder of our conquest over suffering.” Hannibal stood as he spoke, straightening his clothing the best he could.

“Suffering is behind us then, and onward to pleasure?”

“We shall see.” Hannibal gave him a long, curious look, and with that, he went down to the stream to wash himself up. Will stayed up on the hill tending the fire and thinking.

Hannibal’s nature was to cause pain, to destroy. He could no more trust Hannibal than he could a tiger; but tigers, too, can be tamed, and their love is all the sweeter for their violence.

He had no doubt that Hannibal’s vision of their future was blurred: his own was just as muddy. This was truly new territory, the two of them lost, with no other path but onward together. Sure, at the next town, he could easily call the police, gather the massive reward for putting the Chesapeake Ripper behind bars, and get a nice, cozy ride back to Wolf Trap.

But there was something in Hannibal today that Will had never seen: uncertainty. It made him curious. It made him want to know, want to dig, want to explore. He felt, for a moment, that he understood how Hannibal felt about him.

Will heard the rustling of footsteps up the hill, and Hannibal appeared over the crest. He looked tidier, but still bruised and exhausted. He was holding a white rabbit by the feet. Its neck was at a completely wrong angle.

“We have to eat something,” he offered at Will’s concerned look.

Will nodded and handed him the little knife, then sat and watched as Hannibal skinned the animal with as much finesse as he was able in the middle of the forest with a dollar store pocket knife.

He gutted it and spitted it, and they both watched as it cooked over the fire, drops of grease popping and exploding on the pile of sticks.

“Where will we go?” Will asked, eyes on the rabbit.

“I have a place. It will take us a day to walk there, maybe more.”

“Will they find us?”

“It’s unlikely.” Hannibal left it at that. He fingered the little knife, flipping it end over end in his big hand. The gears in his head were turning smoothly, like clockwork. And then, with no change of expression, he handed the knife back to Will. They made brief eye contact as Will took it from him, their fingers brushing against each other quick and hot. Will put it back into his coat pocket.

Hannibal pulled the rabbit off the fire, and they both burned their fingers and tongues in their hurry to get something into their stomachs. It was unseasoned and stringy and greasy and the best thing Will had ever eaten.

Afterwards, they buried the bones and guts under the fire ash, and buried that under fresh dirt, and buried that under the pine needles that had been their pallet. When they were done, the cleared snow in the area was the only thing that gave away their presence; by the end of the day, a fresh flurry would cover even that.

Above them, the sky was grey, and obviously thinking about letting go. Hannibal looked up at it, getting his bearing for the sun, then pointed to their left.

Will started walking, and Hannibal followed.


	2. Chapter 2

It was an exhausting trek, injured as he was, and cold, and hungry. By the second hour, Hannibal was huffing and panting behind him, obviously having an equally bad time of it.

They pushed on. It was too dangerous to stop – they must have still been awfully close to the Vergers’ farm; at any rate, stopping would make this whole thing take even longer.

He put his hand in his pocket to feel the little knife there, almost weightless.

In the afternoon, the forest gave way to low bushes, and then rocky scrub. The going was easier as they went, but riskier without the cover of trees. Will felt incredibly exposed, and adrenaline steamed under his skin the whole way, hours of it turning him pink and breathless.

Eventually they reached a clearing, vegetation dropping off to almost nothing, and Will soon realized that the land to their left had also dropped off completely. They walked along the right-angle cliff for another half hour, the sea rough and choppy some seventy feet below. Will wanted it to consume him, but couldn’t force his feet to stop walking long enough to jump.

He watched as a glint on the horizon in front of them expanded into a polygon, and then materialized into a house, sheathed entirely in glass. The sun was setting by now, and it struck the side of it directly, shooting crystal beams in purple and gold all over the rocky nothing spreading to the west.

“Yours, I presume?” He spoke over his shoulder to Hannibal, whose steps had perked up at the sight of the house.

“My nearest safe house, yes. It’s a little close to home for comfort, but we should be ok here for a few days.”

“Does it have a bathtub?”

Hannibal didn’t say anything, but looked back at Will as he passed him up to find the key he’d hidden under a flat, grey rock. His face was a mix of genuine fondness and affected exasperation.

Will snorted a small laugh. “I call dibs.”

“It has two. Take your shoes off inside the door.”

Hannibal clicked the lock open smoothly and opened the door. Will stepped in behind him, and they both paused to remove their shoes.

When Will stood up again, he got his bearings in the space: slate floors, a huge wooden piano, stark, clean furniture. All of it encompassed by the view of the ocean from walls of glass on three sides. Ostentatious, but not in the way he’d come to expect from Hannibal. He padded in his socked feet across to the living room and ran his hand across the backs of the chairs. 

“Would we have lived here?”

“In another life? I couldn’t say. I’d hoped, once.”

Will had once, too; he didn’t say anything.

Hannibal crossed into the open kitchen and pulled down two plain glasses, filling them both from the tap and handing one to Will.

“Where’s the bath?”

“You have wounds that require medical attention, Will.”

“Do they require medical attention right now?”

“Will.”

“Can I take a bath first, or will I go septic in that time?”

Hannibal glared at him, but softly. He spoke quietly. “First door on the left. Leave your clothes in the hamper in your bedroom. Towels and a bathrobe are in the cabinet.”

Will wondered if Hannibal was even capable of true anger where he was concerned anymore.

He nodded in thanks, then carried his glass of water to the back hallway, going into the first door he found. Inside, a sleek, minimalist bed, made of dark wood and dressed in dark blue sat across from a long, low dresser in the same dark wood.

He took off his coat, hanging it on a peg in the closet. He felt the bulge of the little knife, still inside the right pocket.

He then undressed the rest of the way, putting his bloody, cold clothing inside the hamper. It was getting warm in here already; Hannibal must have adjusted the thermostat.

To the right was a door that led into an ensuite bathroom, tiled in a smoky grey. A large white bathtub sat against one wall, and Will ran the hot water until he could hardly stand to touch it, then plunged the stopper and filled the bath. Steam billowed up, coating the mirror and making the tiles slick.

He stepped in with a groan, skin immediately pinking in the heat of the water. Laying back, he closed his eyes and soaked up the warmth, feeling almost human for the first time in days.

Behind his eyes, his head still swam with motion: the boat ride to Italy, the train ride from Vilnius, the plane ride from Florence, the truck ride to the farm, all of them making his brain rock and sway with the shadows of their momentum. All of them, and then another motion he couldn’t quite grasp. Something after that. Something before he woke up this morning.

How _had_ he gotten to the forest this morning? He’d been unconscious, and even in his worst sleepwalking days, he could never have made it that far on his own. But he hadn’t been on his own, had he? He’d been with Hannibal. Hannibal, who had nothing with him besides the clothes on his back. No car, no motorbike, no fucking sled. That left only one explanation.

Hannibal had carried him. Through the snow.

_Christ._

Will had no idea how far they’d even gone the night before. Far enough for Hannibal to feel comfortable they wouldn’t be tracked.

He pressed his fingers to his eyes until he saw stars. This was a lot to take in.

He didn’t have to take it in right now. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes again and focused on his bath.

On the rim of the tub were bottles of shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner. They all smelled of cedarwood, heady and earthy and comforting. They didn’t smell like Hannibal; they were put here for Will. It was an odd thing to realize, another thing he didn’t want to take in. 

Once clean, he stepped out and towelled off. The towels were huge and fluffy and white, and he wanted to wrap himself up in one and never leave this room. He would have, if he weren’t suddenly starving.

Will opened the top drawer of the guest bedroom ( _his_ bedroom)’s dresser, finding a neatly folded stack of light blue boxers. They fit him perfectly. The whole dresser, in fact, was full of clothing that fit him perfectly, as was the closet.

Out of curiosity, he slipped on one of the crisp, white dress shirts, and found that the button placket just skimmed his abdomen, the cuffs immaculately ending just at his wrist bones. The clothes were fine, obviously expensive, and suited to Will’s coloring and taste; subtle blues and greens, the occasional deep burgundy accent. Lots of white.

He remembered their ill-fated dinner in Italy. Hannibal liked him in white.

He put the shirt back on its hanger and slipped the bathrobe on, wearing it alone over the boxers.

When he came out into the living room, Hannibal was already there, puttering around in the kitchen. His hair was still damp, and he wore a navy pullover sweater and loose, grey trousers. On the island was a white plate with a sandwich in the center: toasted sourdough bread, dry salami, and butter. Will sat at the bar stool and bit into it hungrily.

“I apologize for the simplicity, but all I have is what I could find in the freezer.”

Will smiled and restrained himself from chuckling. He didn’t see Hannibal as the kind of guy who kept a few cans of Campbell’s in the back of the pantry for emergencies.

“This is perfect, really. Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I already did. I found myself mildly famished after my bath.” He nervously scratched behind his ear as he spoke, obviously embarrassed to have been so rude as to succumb to hunger.

“It’s been a long day.”

“Yes.”

Will stifled a small smile into his sandwich. Once he’d finished it, he felt much better, his belly warm and satisfied and making him sleepy.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m about done with today. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going to bed.” He stood off his stool and picked up his plate to wash it.

Hannibal stood in front of the sink, blocking him before he could put the plate in. “Will.”

“Hannibal.”

Even in his annoyance, Hannibal was soft with him. He took the plate from Will’s hand. “You need medical care. Let me. Please.”

Will let him take it. He looked at Hannibal long and hard, and then finally nodded.

Hannibal seemed to let go of some untoward burden, shoulders slouching minutely in relief. He nodded back. “Go ahead to your room, I’ll be right after.”

Will saw him then, their eyes clear as glass. Hannibal was fully human in front of him, an adult man with a childhood behind him, with weaknesses and likes and  
dislikes and hopes for the future.

He turned around and walked down the hall towards his room, where brushed his teeth and got ready for bed.

After a few minutes, Hannibal knocked softly on the open door.

“You can come in.”

Hannibal did, shyly. In his hand he held a cloth bag. He sat next to Will where he was perched on the edge of the bed.

“Lay back.” Hannibal gestured to the headboard.

Will did, taking off his robe in the process, and Hannibal scooted up to sit next to his chest. Will didn’t miss the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard at their proximity.

When Hannibal leaned closer to scan over his injuries, Will noticed him suppress a wince and reflexively arch his back inwards. He’d seen him do the same thing several times over the course of the day, each time subtly shaking off the cold sweat that must be building in his pores. He was injured.

Will felt himself soften. Laying here prone, at Hannibal’s mercy, again. Opened by Hannibal’s hand, and about to be closed by it. And he felt sympathy for the man.

Hannibal quickly recovered from his involuntary shudder, again the face of stoic concern. He took his time looking over Will’s injuries, gauging their seriousness.

“I’ll need to give you an injection.”

Will opened his mouth in rejoinder, but before he could get the words out, Hannibal laid a pair of glass bottles on the bed beside him so that he could read the labels.

“Ciprofloxacin, to prevent infection. Morphine, for the pain. Only when you’re ready for that, to help you sleep.”

Will shut his mouth again.

Hannibal left the bottles on the bed and looked at them while he spoke softly. “You’re right not to trust me. I’ve lost that privilege.”

“Yes.” 

Hannibal looked up at him again.

“I don’t deserve to gain it back, but I hope to.”

Will watched his eyes. They were grey and murky, and he wanted desperately to believe in the honesty he saw there.

“I know.”

They shared another long moment of eye contact. There was a sea between them.

Hannibal broke it off abruptly, turning back to his medical bag. He spoke lightly, casually. “First, though, stitches. We have to get those cuts on your face properly closed.”

“Your cuts.”

“In part, yes. Mine. And others.”

“Your cuts.” Will knew he was being childish again, but hadn’t he earned at least a moment of immaturity in all this?

Hannibal didn’t react, just kept up his casual, professional demeanor. “Lay back.”

“Will this hurt?”

“Yes. It’s unavoidable.” He had no regret in his voice, just the fact, laid bare.

“Will you enjoy it?” He was really asking for it now, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Hannibal just fixed him with a look.

_Yes._

“Go ahead then.”

Hannibal sighed and pulled a little bottle of alcohol out of his bag, then a small cloth pouch with a set of curved needles. He was precise about everything, exact.

It did hurt, but not in an excruciating way. Nothing could hurt horribly with Hannibal pressing into his side the way he was, his grounding weight holding Will down.

When he was finished, he prepared a needle and dipped it into the glass bottle of antibiotic, injecting it smoothly and quickly into Will’s arm. He put a hand to the side of Will’s face then, stroking his cheek gently and looking between his eyes for a long minute. Will could almost hear him inside his head.

_Brave boy._

Will gave him his moment, and then spoke up again, gesturing to Hannibal’s back. “Turn around.”

Hannibal drew his eyebrows in, not understanding.

“You’re hurt too.”

Hannibal gave him a firmly petulant look that made him look much more like a stubborn little boy than a caring doctor. “I’m –”

“– don’t give me that. Turn around.”

Hannibal, apparently having decided he’d tested Will enough for one day, shut his mouth and did as he was told, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from Will.

Will put his hand just under Hannibal’s sweater, at the small of his back. The heat rolling off of him was heady. Will had the brief thought that he’d never touched Hannibal like this, skin-to-skin, on purpose. He felt blood fluttering just underneath the skin, Hannibal’s pulse steady even through the pain and the intimacy.

And then Will lifted the sweater, folding it up over Hannibal’s back. He forgot himself in an instant, gasping at the size of the raw, red brand.

_“Hannibal.”_

Hannibal suddenly let go of all his air at once, putting his pain at Will’s feet.

“ _Jesus._ Stay right here. I’m cleaning this for you. And then you’re getting antibiotics, and morphine, and you’re going to bed.”

Hannibal dropped his head down into his hands, his back horizontal below Will. He seemed frozen, suddenly nonfunctional.

Will scooted to the side of the bed and stepped past him, walking into the ensuite bathroom. He found a small basin below the sink, and a washcloth. He filled the basin with cold water and came back into the bedroom. Hannibal hadn’t moved.

Will sat down beside him, put the washcloth into the water, and pressed it to Hannibal’s back, just lightly. Hannibal hissed through his teeth.

“It’s cold, I know. It will help. Breathe.”

He pressed gently, wetting the whole of it. The washcloth came back pink in several spots. By the time he was done, Hannibal was shaking, but he’d managed to keep his breaths steady. He seemed to be in another space.

“Hannibal.”

No answer. Will stroked the base of his neck, just where his hairline ended.

“Hannibal.”

He heard a faint hum under him.

“Do you have any gauze?”

“In my bathroom. Second drawer.” His speech was muffled by the way his face was hidden under his arms.

“Ok. I’ll be right back.” He gave an extra scratch to Hannibal’s nape as he left.

Hannibal’s was the bedroom down the hall from Will’s, separated by each of their ensuite bathrooms. Will could tell, because while he was bathing, he had heard Hannibal running water and stepping into his own bath, a soft _ploosh_ noise through the wall.

The hallway, he now realized, stretched further on into the dark house: he could see another two closed doors on the opposite side, and he chose not to think about who might have once called those rooms home.

Inside Hannibal’s door, the room was surprisingly stark - dark grey walls, a simple iron bed covered with grey sheets and a navy blanket. Soft, white rugs on the cold slate. That was all.

A wooden door straight ahead must have led to the closet. The one to his left opened into a big ensuite bathroom, its floors and walls covered in a January-fog marble.

Will opened the second drawer of the ebony built-in cabinet, finding Band-aids, Neosporin, cortizone, and, sure enough, a fresh box of gauze and bandage tape. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from Hannibal’s first aid equipment, but the little drug-store medical kit seemed out of place. Ordinary.

He padded back through the slate bedroom and down the hall. Hannibal was still leaned over in the same position.

Will sat down beside him and covered him loosely with the gauze, taping it around the edges.

“Take off your sweater the rest of the way.”

Hannibal looked back at him then from where he had his head tucked under his arm.

“You’ll sleep better.”

Hannibal paused for a long minute, eventually coming to some conclusion. He sat up slowly, breathed deep, and gingerly pulled the sweater the rest of the way off.

“Can you give yourself these injections, or would you like me to?”

“Do you know how?” He was returning to himself now, gaining his measured, controlled speech back. Putting his mantle of stability back on.

“No.”

“I’ll do it.”

Hannibal reached into his bag, pulling out a fresh sharp. He prepared the needle quickly, giving himself the two injections, both in the left forearm, then taping a little piece of gauze over the site.

“I’ll be asleep in under five minutes with this amount of morphine. I’ll need to administer yours now while I still can.”

Will held out his arm, and Hannibal prepared the needle with a new sharp, obviously slowing as he went. He watched him dip the needle into the same bottle he’d taken his own morphine from and put it into his vein. Almost immediately, he felt lighter, both more and less awake.

Hannibal, now becoming clumsy, taped a little piece of gauze over Will’s arm, then pulled back the covers with a look that was meant to be pointed, but was really just very dopey.

Will, feeling a bit dopey himself, got beneath them and laid on his side, hugging the pillow tight to his chest.

“Lay down, Hannibal.”

Hannibal looked at him for a second, searching his eyes. They were both cloudy, but he found something he needed there. He nodded, and laid on the other side of the bed, still in his slacks.

“On your belly. Covers off of your back,” Will ordered, feeling his tongue slur ungracefully over his words.

He felt Hannibal shift around. Will turned himself to face the center of the bed, still on his side and hugging the pillow.

His eyes were closed before he could even register Hannibal’s face.


	3. Chapter 3

Will woke up slowly the second day, still seeing opioid dreams behind his eyelids: white wolves running towards a rabbit across stark snow. Arterial spray marring the clean landscape.

He smelled it, the meat and the blood and the cold, and under that, a light, musky smell: licorice and clean wool. Hannibal.

At the thought, his eyes warmed up to the idea of waking, and he opened them slowly, noticing the bed empty, an indentation on the neighboring pillow. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and noted that his pain was already much calmer than the day before. He touched his forehead and the side of his cheek, feeling the ridged black threads Hannibal had placed, evenly spaced and clean. His shoulder was still sore, though he could feel that it was already knitting together nicely from the quick stitches Hannibal had administered while they were still in Italy.

_Cut me apart and sew me back together, is this how it’s going to be?_

How _was_ it going to be? Where else could he go, now that they were bound together, far from civilization? If he left, Hannibal would only find him again. Or he would find Hannibal again. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Was their fate to be living in a big empty house, bathing next door to each other, subsisting on salami sandwiches, until something better came along?

Will felt his headache start to creep back up, and he finally rolled himself over and planted his feet on the floor. Some cold water from the tap helped, and he lingered through doing his morning washing up. Afterwards, he slipped on a white t-shirt and a pair of blue plaid flannel pajama pants he’d found in the dresser, then padded out into the living room.

Hannibal was sitting at the kitchen island nursing a cup of coffee, staring out the massive window wall at the snow flurries that were just picking up outside. He was still shirtless, but had changed into red pajama pants. The white field of gauze stood out stark against his tan skin. There was a matching white patch of flour on the side of his pajama pants, and Will looked around the kitchen to see a pan of biscuits ready for the oven.

He watched Hannibal for a long minute, seeing his eyes flick up towards a bird taking off from the eaves of the house, then back towards the horizon.

“Morning.”

Hannibal looked over at the sound of his voice. Will knew he’d known he was standing there watching him the whole time. “Good morning, Will. There’s more coffee in the French press. Mugs above the sink.”

“Thank you.”

“No cream, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright, I take it black.”

He poured himself a mug and came to sit next to Hannibal, gazing out at the gusts of snow that were coming in harder now, horizontally against the house. They sat there for a long time, not saying a word to each other. The wind howled around them like wolves at a kill.

When it slowed down a little, the ground already covered with a still-growing layer of several inches of snow, Hannibal stood and went to the refrigerator. Will heard him rustling around behind him, turning on the oven, popping the biscuits in, readying a frying pan. He smelled something savory and herbed, and heard grease pop and hiss. After a few minutes, he heard the clink of plates, and Hannibal came up from his right side and put down a knife and fork and a plate of biscuits and sausage links, fried brown on both sides. Hannibal then served himself and sat down to eat.

For a brief moment, Will wondered what, _who_ , exactly their breakfast was today, and then decided that he didn’t really care. The food was warm and salty and filling. The biscuits were the dense, doughy sort that he remembered from the church breakfast potlucks he’d attended as a child, and Hannibal served them with plenty of butter on the side.

He felt much more human after he’d eaten, and they stayed sitting there next to each other, watching the still world outside.

Eventually, Will felt the need to break the silence. “The world is so calm like this.”

“Hmm?”

“In fresh snow. It’s so smooth and ordered.”

Hannibal thought for a moment, tongue wetting his lips before he spoke. “There is an ephemeral stillness that we find comforting, looking out at winter from a warm home. But time can’t stand the vacuum of stillness; entropy will set in, and the snow will be marred by the activity of life.”

“Is life the entropic force, or is death?”

A smile crept in, just at the corners of Hannibal’s eyes. “Death is a cessation of entropy. The chill of winter brings about death, smooth and crisp, while spring revives life in all its boundless chaos.”

“And where in this cycle are you and I?”

“We are both, and neither.”

Will looked at him curiously.

“The selves we were have died, and we become new selves every minute.” Hannibal’s eyes were clear as he spoke.

These conversations would be infuriating, if they weren’t as comfortable as a favorite sweater.

“And what about choice?” 

“In multiple worlds, our various selves will choose every path.”

This, obviously was a comforting and complete answer for Hannibal. Will, on the other hand, wasn’t as sold on the Maxwell’s Demon theory of entropy reversal and its infinite lifetimes in which they could try to get it right.

“Where will we go, in this one?” He pushed further, knowing he wasn’t likely to get much more.

Hannibal sipped his coffee. “We still have many options open to us.”

“Is it better if we leave the country?”

“Almost definitely.”

“Not Florence.”

Hannibal chuckled. “No, not Florence. Not for quite some time.”

“Do you worry more about extradition, or about the price on your head?”

“We’d be wise to consider the former.”

He had a point. The black market, they could deal with; they already had. INTERPOL, on the other hand...

“And civilization? Do you prefer to live near people?”

“If feasible, yes. But it’s not a need of mine. Nor, I suspect, of yours.”

“No.”

“We have time. They’ll be looking for us, but further west, in Baltimore or Wolf Trap.”

Will had mentally placed them somewhere in Delmarva, and Hannibal’s speculation confirmed that for him. He nodded.

“If we can make it to Chincoteague, I know a place we can get a boat for cheap. No questions asked.”

Hannibal hummed. He looked pleased. “We can get to a great many places by sea.”

“How long will our supplies last here?”

“Days, maybe, but not comfortably. We should rest and heal, while we can, but I’d like to be gone within the week.”

“Less.”

“Ideally, yes.”

The snow outside had stopped entirely by now, an eerie silence enveloping the house. A bird chirped, and it echoed unnaturally in the morning still.

They’d made their choice. And they’d choose again, and again, and again.

* * *

The day was quiet. Hannibal worked on cleaning their bloodied clothes, removing any identifying evidence of their presence. Will mostly sat and read when Hannibal was in the room, and poked around exploring the common spaces when he was in the back doing laundry. He didn’t find much of interest; Hannibal was obviously very, very good at this sort of thing, at living anonymously.

The knowledge that they’d soon be leaving weighed over them: there was no real reason to get comfortable here, no real reason to think of it as home.

There was regret in the way Hannibal looked at the space, the furniture, the ocean view. He’d wanted this for them. He’d made it for them.

And just as surely, he’d taken it away from them.

In the afternoon, as Hannibal was pulling a set of defrosted steaks from the refrigerator, Will spoke up from where he was perched on the sofa.

“We’ll make a new place, you know.”

Hannibal turned around and looked at him with a strange intensity, then blinked and went back to his work. “Yes.”

Will knew that this place, and their life here with Abigail, the life that wasn’t, lived on in Hannibal’s mind. It always would, and it would always be an ideal divergence from the reality of events.

“It will be what it is.”

Hannibal didn’t say anything. He concentrated on preparing dinner, going through the familiar motions of being in the kitchen. He moved less fluidly in this space; it truly wasn’t his home, not anymore.

When he was done, he plated their steaks and served them with warmed frozen peas, garnished with dried mint. He shrugged in slight apology, and Will laughed it off. They sat at the island as they ate, the two of them again side-by-side and watching the darkness envelop the snowy house.

“We should leave tomorrow.”

Hannibal hummed.

“How close is the nearest town?”

“Not far. An hour’s walk.”

“We’ll find a car and drive south.”

“Yes.”

Will nodded. They finished eating and sat together on the sofa, both reading from the extensive library that ran along the back wall of the living room. Will would regret leaving that behind them.

After a couple of chapters of Ovid, the tiredness set back into Will’s bones, and he decided he’d better rest some before their walk in the cold tomorrow. Before they had to interact with the public again. By the next evening, with any luck, they’d be on the sea, the Virginia coast behind them. 

Will got up from the sofa and put his book back on the shelf where it belonged. He noticed Hannibal’s eyes tracking his movement.

“Come with me.”

Hannibal nodded, closing his own book and following Will into his room. He took his shirt off, keeping his slacks on, and laid down over the covers in the same spot he had the night before. Will climbed in next to him and pulled up the covers on his own side.

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight.”

Hannibal laid on his side, facing Will, and closed his eyes. He looked soft like this, almost kind.

Will switched off the light.

He laid there in the dark on his back, eyes shut, for what must have been an hour. Every time he thought he was close to sleep, he’d find himself conscious again, the hope of sleep slipping further and further away as time went on.

There was something clawing in his skin, making it feel too tight and too loose all at once. The warmth from Hannibal’s body was seeping into him, searing his side.

He suddenly needed to understand Hannibal, to cut into his muscle, down to the bone. He wanted to fully disembowel him, to take out his organs and lay them out neatly in front of him: in size order, and then alphabetically, and then in order of taste.

He shifted to face Hannibal, and lay there watching him for a long time, listening to the other man’s breathing, carefully measured, but too fast. He was still awake.

“Hannibal?”

Hannibal opened his eyes and looked back. They were mirrored on their sides, both curled into the center of the bed.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?” Hannibal searched his eyes intently.

“Yes.”

Hannibal reached up and took Will’s cheek in his hand. He stroked it gently with his thumb. 

“Is that really what you want?”

Will put his hand on Hannibal’s throat, feeling his pulse thud, slow and thick.

“Yes.”

Hannibal’s pulse sped, minutely. “Alright.” His gaze dragged down to Will’s mouth. “May I kiss you?”

“No. Not today.”

Hannibal nodded, eyes still on Will’s open lips. “Alright.”

It would be new for Will, to be with a man like this. He’d experimented. He knew that sort of thing felt good. And he’d thought a lot about it, especially in the context of his relationship with Hannibal, knowing that this was somewhat inevitable. And all of that had made him very, very curious.

What would that be like, to touch him? To give him pleasure? He looked down between them. Hannibal was growing hard already. 

“Let me see.”

Hannibal looked down too. Will unbuttoned and unzipped Hannibal’s pants, revealing black briefs. The bulge grew further with his proximity, and Will ran a tentative finger up the underside of it. Hannibal shivered.

“You’ve wanted this.”

Hannibal breathed out raggedly, a choked sound leaving his throat. Will cupped him. He was so warm, so surprisingly human like this.

Both of them watched as Will reached inside Hannibal’s briefs and pulled his cock out. Will felt his own breathing pick up at the dim sight of it in the dark bedroom. It was different than he’d imagined, thick and blunt and uncut. It pulsed in his hand, fully hard now.

“How often have you touched yourself? Thinking of this?”

Hannibal sighed out, quietly. “Often.”

Will stroked him from base to tip and back down. He felt clumsy, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind.

“And you?” Hannibal’s voice was low and rough, his throat full of rocks.

“Of course.”

“When?” Hannibal’s mouth was hanging open now, his hair a curtain over his eyes.

“In prison, after…” Will trailed off.

“...after you…”

“Yes.”

Hannibal grunted and thrust into the tunnel of Will’s hand. Will was hard now too, the warm throb of Hannibal’s cock making him feel safe and alive.

“Did you? Did you find as much pleasure in your suffering as I did?” Will asked. He had to know.

“After? Oh, yes. Yes.” Hannibal moved his hand down to Will’s hip, thumb tentatively stroking along his hipbone. “May I?”

Will nodded. “Yeah… yeah.”

Will watched his face as Hannibal pushed down Will’s boxers. Hannibal swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple twitched as he reached down to grip Will’s cock, hand shaking just the littlest bit.

It was perfect. His hand was so big and warm and caring where it wrapped around Will. He knew instinctively how much pressure to use, how fast to go, where to press right under the head to make Will gasp. And he was shy, almost coltish about it.

Will let him keep going for a minute, drowning in the pleasure of it, becoming more confident with his own hand on Hannibal. But this wasn’t exactly what he wanted, he needed more.

“Hannibal…” He groaned.

Hannibal looked up into Will’s eyes, hand still stroking him lightly. He found what he needed there and let out a soft moan as he took his own hand away and thrust one more time into Will’s. He rolled onto his belly to reach the bedside drawer, pulling out a little bottle.

He hesitated after he rolled back to face Will.

“I’m willing, if you’d rather…”

“No.”

Hannibal searched Will’s face for another long second, then blinked and nudged Will’s hip to get him to roll onto his back.

He poured what looked like a thorough amount of lube out onto his fingers, then reached between Will’s legs, hesitating one more time. Will grabbed him by the arm and pulled his hand forward. Hannibal took the hint, taking command finally.

He started slow, brushing lightly against Will’s perineum, then further down, where he ghosted over Will’s hole, traveling around and back up, fondling his balls, stroking him from base to tip, then back down again, several times. His touch was so delicate, so unexpectedly wonderful. 

The second Will lost himself in it, breathing hard and letting out helpless syllables, he backed off, focusing just on his hole now, circling it in earnest, rubbing over and around it until Will was rutting back onto his finger, trying for more. Will looked over and saw the ghost of a smile on Hannibal’s face, and then he was breaching him, pressing in with his finger and back out, massaging along his walls. It was an odd feeling, but not entirely unpleasant, and it got better and better the longer he went. Will saw a flush creeping up Hannibal’s chest, and noticed a drop of precum growing at his tip.

After a while, he added a second finger, just in and out at first, and then spreading and rubbing. He already felt so big like this, with only his fingers. It was so, so good. Will was growing painfully hard.

And then Hannibal bent his fingers _just so_ , and Will felt electricity run through him, making his cock jerk and leak. Pleased, Hannibal did it again, and again, until Will was panting and moaning, then he pulled back and reentered with a third finger, and _Christ_ was that a lot. Hannibal slowed down, letting Will get used to it, stretching him, before he went for his prostate again, and the added pressure had Will seeing stars.

“Fuck, I think… I think I’m ready.”

Hannibal hummed, and looked at Will with a question in his eyes as he continued to massage his prostate. It was so good, Will almost didn’t want him to stop.

“I want you… _gnnh_ … I want you behind me.”

Hannibal nodded and pulled his fingers out, scooting back to give Will room to flip over.

Will turned over onto his knees and gripped his pillow. He knew Hannibal would probably prefer to be face to face, and the position wasn’t great on his shoulder, but he wasn’t quite ready to do this sort of thing with extensive eye contact. This was how it was going to be. 

He heard Hannibal shift around, and felt the bed dip behind him. A big hand gripped his left hip, and the other, newly slicked, entered him again. A few thrusts and presses to Will’s prostate later, Hannibal seemed satisfied that he was loose and ready enough. He slipped his fingers out, a wet sound following. Will felt himself clench at the loss, but soon felt the nudge of Hannibal’s cockhead against his rim.

His heart pounded.

And then Hannibal pushed forward, and they both groaned in tandem. He worked his way in slowly, almost gently, though Will could feel from the tremor of the hand on his hip that it was taking every ounce of strength he had not to just take him rough and fast.

Every time Will thought there couldn’t be any more, Hannibal pushed in just a little further, until finally Will could feel Hannibal’s groin pressed tight against him. Hannibal paused, panting hard behind him, and Will was grateful for the moment to adjust. He felt filled completely, like there was more inside him that was Hannibal than wasn’t. It was intensely comforting and terrifying, all at once. His head was calm, finally. Warmth spread through his chest, filling up all the cracks and scars that he’d accrued over the years.

And then, once he was full and contented, he somehow needed more. He squeezed around Hannibal experimentally, and heard a long, low groan from behind him.

“Please, Will.”

Will moaned.

_Oh fuck._

He pushed back against Hannibal, inviting him to continue. Hannibal took a deep breath and gripped Will’s other hip tightly – _that would bruise_ – before pulling back and sliding back in. Hannibal had certainly prepared him well enough; it was slick and easy, and soon Hannibal had a slow, steady rhythm going. He was groaning with every thrust, obviously expending a significant amount of effort to draw this out as long as possible.

“Hannibal?”

Will felt Hannibal’s hips stutter and heard him let out a deep moan. _Christ, what a gorgeous sound._ He’d never expected Hannibal to be so vocal in bed, a constant stream of grunts and groans accompanying his every movement, and every single one going straight to Will’s cock.

“Go harder.”

Hannibal obeyed instantly, speeding up and pressing into Will with more force. He growled loudly with the change, squeezing Will’s hips harder now as he fucked him.

Will felt his whole body moving with it, and the bed was beginning to creak and rock. Every thrust was like a complete invasion, and a warm, safe cocoon, all at once. He felt loved completely. The pleasure was becoming almost unbearable, his brain and spinal cord singing out for relief from it. He heard himself moaning.

Hannibal was grunting hard behind him, seemingly in some other headspace entirely. He wondered whether Hannibal was composing some ode to this, or sketching it out in his memory palace for eternity; or if he was so overwhelmed by the reality of it that he couldn’t do anything but be present.

He felt much the same way, almost surprised that they were finally here, doing this. Looking back, even during those first therapy sessions, he’d known this was in their future, somewhere in the hind area of his lizard brain. He’d never let himself think about it consciously, but this felt too right not to be inevitable.

Will felt a shift in Hannibal’s movements, an increase in his desperation. He was speeding up now, thrusting harder and faster.

“Hannibal?”

Nothing but rough panting from behind him.

“Take what you need.”

He paused, buried deep inside Will, and Will clenched down around him. Hannibal gave a sharp, cut-off moan. And with that, he leaned forward and laid over Will’s back, pressing down with all his weight, hands on the bed, arms caging him in, and thrust hard. The angle drove him right into Will’s prostate, and Will heard himself scream from far away, as though he weren’t in his own body.

Hannibal kept going like that, rutting mindlessly straight into Will’s sweet spot, grunting hard into Will’s ear. It was animal and raw. It was an exorcism.

He was big and broad and suffocating, and Will felt safe like this, under him. Protected. This was exactly what he needed, to be used like this, and to receive this blinding pleasure. The reverse of the coin.

Hannibal started to speed up again, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic.

“Will, I’m…”

“Touch me.”

Hannibal breathed harshly into Will’s ear, leaning his weight onto one side as he reached down to grip Will’s cock. Will heard himself moan, so, so close, balls already drawing up tight. Just a couple of strokes and he was pulsing and spilling hard over Hannibal’s hand, his whole body tensing with the force of it, and seconds later, he heard a rough shout from behind him as Hannibal thrust one last time and came, pushed deep inside.

His knees gave out, and he felt himself collapse, Hannibal going down with him, his weight pressing him into the bed.

Will never wanted to move.

Eventually, he felt Hannibal shift and slip out with a weak groan. He shuddered with the sudden loss and nudged Hannibal with his elbow. Hannibal hummed and rolled over and off, and Will turned onto his side, facing away from him. Hannibal clutched to him from behind, nose pressed tightly into the hairs on Will’s nape. Will felt him breathing hard. His belly was surprisingly soft where it pressed into his back, and Will scooted back into his embrace, letting himself be held as hard as Hannibal needed.

He was fully exhausted, his brain finally quiet. As he fell asleep, he felt a shuddering sob rock through the body behind him, and he hugged Hannibal’s arm tight as he slipped off into dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Will woke to find Hannibal still sleeping curled around him. Will was on his back now, Hannibal still on his side; Hannibal’s sandy head was heavy on his chest, arm tightly gripped around him. His soft breaths tickled against the hairs on Will’s stomach.

He looked serene, and Will almost mourned the purple bruise that still spread over his cheek, the little lacerations across his face. The little boy who Hannibal had been once didn’t deserve those things; didn’t deserve to be scarred like this. Neither did Will. No boy does.

But as men, they’d earned those scars, and they were scant punishment for the people they’d become.

Will ran his hand through Hannibal’s soft hair where it lay across his forehead, raking it out of his closed eyes. He wanted so badly to let go of his anger and his vengeance against this man. In time, maybe he could.

He gently lifted Hannibal’s heavy arm to extricate himself, and stepped quietly out of the bed. As he walked towards the door, he heard a little groan, and turned to see Hannibal clutching at Will’s pillow in his sleep. 

He padded out to the kitchen and put the kettle on for coffee, scooping four rounded spoons of black grounds into the French press. While it boiled, he watched out the window as a gull took flight from the stone patio, gliding straight out to sea.

He could easily do the same at this point. With knowledge of where he was and how to get to town, he had no reason to stay with Hannibal. No obligation to forge their scarred histories into a new life, to put all their fear and doubt aside and trust each other.

But that path was wiped from his mind, replaced with a clean nothing. The only thing he could see in his future was Hannibal.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and set about pulling some dry goods from the cabinet to take with them on their journey. By the time he had it all laid out on the counter, Hannibal emerged from his bedroom, shirtless and bleary-eyed, hair a mess. He came to stand by Will at the island and yawned as he looked over Will’s cache.

“We’ll want medical supplies as well.”

Will nodded.

Hannibal pretended to be focusing intently on inventorying the bags of flour and rice and oatmeal, but Will noticed his nervous hand clenching and unclenching reflexively where he’d rested it on the counter. Will reached out his own hand and placed it over Hannibal’s, stroking the side of it with his thumb. Hannibal let out a hard breath and his twitch stopped. Will took his hand away again.

“Breakfast?” Hannibal asked, as confident and steady as ever.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Will replied, casual and easy.

Hannibal stepped back towards the kitchen, putting a quick hand to the small of Will’s back as he passed him.

He set himself to warming the leftover biscuits and the remaining sausage while Will worked on packing their things into the bottom of the rucksack he’d found in the linen closet. The whole thing was decidedly domestic, the way they’d fallen into this tiny routine in so short a time. Despite himself, Will was hungry for more of it.

After they ate, they split up to gather their things and prepare to leave. Will dressed himself warmly in the clothing he found in his dresser: a thick, blue cable-knit sweater over a henley, with denim work pants. He grabbed several extra t-shirts and boxers and slipped them into his rucksack. Over all of it, he put the peacoat back on, checking the pocket for the little knife. After a moment’s thought, he slipped it out and put it in the front pocket of the bag.

When they met again in the living room, Hannibal had also gathered some extra clothing for himself, and Will packed it into the bag alongside his own. On top, he put the little medical kit Hannibal had put together: extra antibiotics, morphine, gauze, and the little kit of needles, as well as several bottles of medication Will guessed might be difficult for them to acquire without a valid medical license.

Will insisted on carrying the supply bag himself. “Look at your back, Hannibal. You think I’m going to let you wear this?”

Hannibal looked intently at him for a moment, thoughts passing rapidly behind his eyes, and then nodded and set himself to shutting down the house: turning off the lights and thermostat, locking the door and leaving the key under the little rock on the patio.

“Will we come back here?”

“No.”

Will eyed the rock, balanced lightly on its ledge, the rusting key underneath. “You can’t know that.”

Hannibal looked out at the sea, churning a deep indigo where it stretched beyond the cliff. “You’re right,” he said as he turned inland again. “I can’t.”

He started to walk, trusting Will to follow.

This walk was much easier than their last one. The sun had come out, and the ground was smooth and even. Snow crunched under their boots with a rhythmic _shnk-shnk-shnk_. Their fear of capture had gone down substantially – if Verger or Crawford were coming to find them, they would have come already.

The path led them downhill, and there were several areas where they had to scramble down icy rock faces, Hannibal always going first, his steady hand offered up to help Will down. Will fought the urge to roll his eyes, but the gesture pressed against a soft, needy place in his heart.

Eventually, they came across a highway and followed it from a wary distance. The road was mostly deserted, but all the same, any attention was bad attention. They began to see buildings lying in the snowy fields, little farmhouses, wooden clapboard churches, the beginnings of a town; and then, over a small rise, a grid of streets appeared. It looked mostly abandoned, vacant warehouses next to impound lots, chain restaurants and dollar stores.

On the main drag, Hannibal stopped in front of a newspaper box, scanning the front page.

“It’s Sunday, that explains why nothing is open.”

Will felt a little spark in the back of his brain, realizing for the first time that he’d had no concept of time since Italy. He couldn’t even say how long they’d been at the farm, or asleep in the forest. Sunday made just as much sense as Tuesday would, or Thursday.

“Anything relevant?”

“About us? No, we haven’t yet made the cover of the _Wicomico County Weekly_.”

“I’m almost insulted.”

Hannibal just hummed, walking on towards the auto garage at the end of the block.

When they got there, Will saw that it had a small used car lot in the back. An orange sign on the door read SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. Hannibal tried the door and found it open. He walked back out holding a set of keys in front of him.

“This town is small enough for people to still trust their neighbors.”

Will snorted. “Apparently, it’s not their neighbors they should be concerned about.”

Hannibal held the keyring up, inspecting it and then looking over the lot to see their choices. “I live close enough to count as a neighbor. Think of this as a favor.”

“What, they’re giving you a car for your _not_ eating them?”

“Something like that.” He gave Will a cheeky smile, opening the chain link fence that led to the car lot.

Will laughed, and it surprised him. Their conversations had always flowed with an easy humor, but they’d lost much of that with all that had happened. It felt good to have it back, to relish the spark of chemistry between them again.

The key Hannibal had had a black plastic cap with the Toyota logo embossed on it. He went to the first Corolla and tried the door. Nothing. He worked his way down the line, eventually coming to a little green Tacoma that swung open for him. Giving Will an expectant look, he hopped in the driver’s seat.

Will climbed into the cab and put the rucksack between his knees. Hannibal started the engine smoothly and drove off the lot, as though he’d owned this truck all his life.

“This is a good look for you.”

“Hmm?” Hannibal looked over curiously.

“Pickup truck driver. You almost look like a local,” Will teased.

“Almost?”

“Almost.”

While Hannibal drove them out of town, down past the closed bank and the diner with three patrons sipping coffee at barstools, Will cranked the heater and fiddled with the radio. The only thing he could pick up was a country legends channel, and he settled for listening to the smooth sounds of Willie Nelson.

Hannibal looked at him sideways, the hint of a smile on his lips, but didn’t say anything. This was surprisingly comfortable, easy.

After an hour, driving back east to the coast and then straight down, they came to another little town, this one a little livelier. Hannibal suggested they stop to stretch their legs and buy groceries.

Inside, they each took a cart and loaded up with supplies for their impending boat trip. Not knowing where they were going or for how long presented a challenge, but Will knew exactly which sorts of provisions would keep and cook well. He stayed towards the middle aisles of the store, picking up cans of tuna and beans, bags of rice, jars of peanut butter, bottles of water. He let Hannibal handle the less practical things: the filet steaks and endive and goat cheese. The things that wouldn’t last past a week, but would be admittedly delicious while they did.

In concession to each of their talents, Will would make sure they actually stayed alive for the whole of their voyage, while Hannibal would make the whole thing much more livable.

When they met back up at the register, Will fought the urge to veto several of Hannibal’s selections, as he was sure Hannibal likewise wanted to eliminate his entire cart. Neither of them touched a thing, and at the register, Hannibal paid with an envelope of cash that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Will knew better than to ask about it.

They loaded their bags into the bed of the truck, the weather cold enough they didn’t have to worry about refrigeration, and Hannibal kept driving, another hour down the coast to Chincoteague.

Will directed him through the little town to a harbor on the bayside. Hopefully someone would be in today – even if not, Will was now convinced Hannibal could find a way to get them onto one of those boats in any case. That might even be better, to avoid human contact as they had at the car lot.

He went into the little bait shop, and the bell dinged above the door.

It wasn’t Bill inside, but someone else, maybe his son or nephew. Will felt a moment of relief. They could still handle this legitimately, but it was less likely that this kid behind the counter would recognize him.

“Afternoon.”

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Any of these boats for sale out here?”

“Just the two on the end, and one of them has a shot motor.”

“What’ll you take for the one that works?”

“$5000.”

“It have a berth and kitchen?”

“Tiny one, yes sir.”

Reasonable. He pretended to think for a moment, looking out at the boat skeptically. “How about this, I’ve got a truck out here worth about $8000. Will you take that?”

The kid gave him a funny look.

“It’s a good deal, I’d take it if I were you.” Will could be smooth when he wanted to, persuasive. And often less obvious about it than Hannibal.

“Let me see the truck.”

Will walked him out to where Hannibal was still sitting in the driver’s seat. The kid looked it over and kicked the tires a few times.

“You guys trying to get out of here or something?”

“Do you want the truck or not?”

The kid walked around to the back and tried the little gate, opening it and closing it a couple of times. He wasn’t entirely buying this whole situation, but even he knew a good deal when he saw it. He nodded, seeming to come to some conclusion, then stood up and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Come inside, I’ve got the keys to the boat. I’ll help you load your stuff. Throw in some bait and a rod for you, too.”

Within thirty minutes, they’d gotten all their groceries onboard, the deck cleaned of old debris, and the engine purring smoothly. The kid seemed pleased with his new truck, and Will said a silent prayer that the used car dealer wouldn’t trace it all the way down here.

He was tired already from the day’s activity. Both of them were really still healing from their injuries and the stresses of the last week. His bones still ached a little, but he felt brighter and cleaner now than he had in months, years.

Their past life, the things that had belonged to them, were behind. Now all they had was this boat, this rucksack of clothing, and these bags of groceries.

He climbed up on deck and waved Hannibal up with him, holding out a hand to help him aboard. Once they were both steady, he checked all the gauges and untied the rope from the dock, pushing off with his hand.

He started the engine and let it run for a second, the thick smell of sparking gas filling the air briefly, and then they were off, passing slowly through the forest of boats that led out to the open sea. When he looked back at the dock, the kid had already gone inside.

Will took a seat on the bench lining the stern, guiding the motor with a steady hand. Hannibal came to sit beside him, and they watched as the peninsula turned into a lump on the horizon, and then a thin line; their boat, by now, a speck on the water when viewed from shore.

Once they were at a comfortable cruising speed, Will had a thought. He reached for the rucksack and opened the front pocket, fingering the little knife again, then taking it out. He held it and looked at it, turning it over in his hand once, twice, then tossed it over the side, Hannibal’s eyes tracing its arc as it splashed into the sea.

They sat back again together, watching the land go by, watching the gulls fly in close to them, and then farther inland, and then back again. The salt spray was cold in their faces, and it smelled good and clean and fresh.

“We’ll keep the land just in view and travel south.” Will had to yell over the noise of the motor.

Hannibal nodded, leaning in close to Will’s ear to make himself heard. “And then what?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

Hannibal smiled as he sat back. “I suppose we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> [strangestorys.tumblr.com](http://strangestorys.tumblr.com)
> 
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